


Crossed Paths

by howldax



Category: American McGee's Alice, Halloween Movies - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:07:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22897747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howldax/pseuds/howldax
Summary: Samuel Loomis requests that Alice Liddell, famous for killing her previous psychiatrist, is transferred into his care. He gets his wish, but it isn’t he who benefits from her presence.
Relationships: Alice Liddell & Michael Myers
Comments: 4
Kudos: 37





	Crossed Paths

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys! i love both these characters a lot, and they have a lot in common, so here’s this! halloween 2007 michael, and of course alice’s setting here is very different, but other than the time period the events of a:mr are essentially unchanged. warning for attempted sexual assault (the scene from the beginning of halloween 07, but i hate that scene so it gets no further than an attempt), and canon-typical violence. please let me know if you enjoy! i originally hoped to make this a full story, but am posting it as a one shot for now.

They made an odd pair, the hulking giant in the jumpsuit and the girl with the tattered skirt. Or perhaps more accurately, they  looked an odd pair, as physically different as they were; really, they weren't an odd pair at all. 

Alice Liddell was small, and concerningly slender - the kind of slender that comes, rather than from nature, from not eating enough for many, many years. She had long, black hair, tangled where it brushed her shoulder blades, andunusually pale skin and eyes. She had something of a spark in those grey-green eyes, an inkling of fight; but sometimes those eyes went blank, unseeing, as she retreated to the world inside her mind for safety. 

Michael Myers, in contrast, was probably almost 7 feet tall, and broad as an ox. One of his hands was the size of Alice's entire abdomen, and it would've been hard to guess from his build that he had been institutionalised for most of his life. He had lank, blonde hair that hung over his face, which was covered - at almost all times - by a mask. He had many, but the most commonly worn was one painted to look like a pumpkin, and this was the one he was wearing at this very moment. Beneath the mask, he had light blue eyes, blank with a dissociation so strong that he barely considered himself human. 

Alice held a mask similar to Michael's; hers was painted in red, yellow and blue. A clown. It was clumsily made - by much younger hands - but it had lasted the years, which would have been a comfort to her if she knew it. Her fingers held it firmly, so as not to drop it, but not firmly enough to create a dent. She was being very careful not to damage it. 

Perhaps a little context is needed, hm? It was by pure chance that their paths ever crossed; Dr Samuel Loomis had requested Alice be transferred to his care several months ago, when it became clear that her current guardian was having little success in helping her. It had taken a long time to process - he had almost given up - when the confirmation came through that he would become her primary physician. Loomis was thrilled. What an opportunity! Michael Myers had made for an excellent book, and drawn interest from around the country - hell, around the world! - but his novelty had worn off. People didn't care about the demon-eyed stare of a murderous child now that he was an adult, safely contained and unfrightening, his psyche bared to the world. There was no mystery left to be fascinated by. 

Investigating and unwrapping the 'wonderland' Alice Liddell so fervently clung to would be interesting enough both professionally and journalistically to last him at least another book, Loomis thought. And, having killed her first physician, Alice was just volatile enough to make people equally curious and afraid. That combination would, almost certainly, lead to a bestseller. 

So Alice Liddell had arrived at the facility where Michael Myers had grown up, and was placed in the cell adjacent to his, by pure coincidence. She had met Dr Loomis, and found herself unimpressed. She had been allowed her old dress, an obvious play to gain her favour, but she was still made to wear the straitjacket over the top of it, in case she decided to repeat Bumby's treatment. 

Nobody had believed her when she told them what he was doing, and nobody believed her now, after she'd killed him. Alice remembered doctors calling her all sorts of cruel things because she didn't regret her actions, but that wouldn't change anything. Alice knew that blood on her hands was worth it, if she had saved the children he would have destroyed. She didn't allow herself to regret her path. 

That way lies madness, Alice , the Cheshire Cat had once told her, his macabre grin stretched wide.  Now that the train has been derailed for good, Wonderland is saved. Will you destroy it with self-pity at the life you have cost yourself? 

Oh hush, Cat , she had told him, folding her arms. I plan to do nothing of the sort. If I am to live with the consequences of my actions then I intend to do it within Wonderland, when I can - why would I destroy my sanctuary?

The Cat had purred approvingly.  That's my girl , he said, and faded away. 

That was something none of the doctors could ever hope to understand; she had saved the children, yes, but more importantly she had saved herself. She couldn't bring herself to regret that, after seeing the destruction that the Train had wrought upon her mind. Bumby deserved what he got and more. 

Loomis reminded her a little of him. Self-serving, brimming with false kindness. Alice had retreated to Wonderland only a few minutes into their first conversation, completely uninterested in whatever he had to say. They had done much worse than talk at her in the asylum; she wasn't frightened of him. 

Her first night, however, proved that while Loomis was merely an annoyance, some of the other staff were just as bad as Bumby. The two men came into her cell and dragged her out, kicking and screaming, and when one slapped her she whipped back and bit him hard on the hand, even though she knew it would get her hit again. He swore, and did hit her, but she was prepared for it this time, and spat blood against his cheek. 

They pressed her against the wall, her straitjacketed arms useless to her, her thin legs kicking ineffectively at her attackers. Alice realised with clarity that she could not escape this situation, and closed her eyes as fingers touched the inside of her knee, willing Wonderland to swallow her up. 

"Wait, I got an idea," one of the men said gleefully, and the hand was gone from her knee. 

Even Alice, in her confinement, knew about Michael Myers. The staff at the asylum had talked about him in earshot, not caring whether she heard - or, she thought, probably not even bothering to register her catatonic body as human.  Demon eyes , they called him,  freak ,  the purest evil behind a child's face . Alice thought that was probably nonsense, but had the good sense not to say so even when she was capable of speech. 

When she was shoved forcefully into the adjoining cell, the first thing that caught her eye was the masks taped to every available surface. They were all obviously home made, painted in every colour, and there was something simultaneously unsettling and comforting in the diligence with which they had been created. 

The second thing she noticed was the man sitting at the desk. He had a paintbrush in his fingers, Alice could see, but she couldn't quite see the mask that he was painting. Fear still hammered in her chest, but it was distant; Wonderland was coming closer, almost within reach of her clutching fingers. Alice let herself be shoved to the bed, putting up a feeble resistance when she felt those hands on her knees again, and then on her thighs; she heard, as if underwater, the sound of a zipper, jeering and hooting from the men above her, but when she looked around, eyes wide but unfocused, Michael Myers had not reacted even one little bit. 

Alice blinked, eyelids slow and heavy, feeling Wonderland swimming at the edge of her vision, and saw that the man above her had grabbed one of the masks on the wall and pressed it against his face. His other hand groped at her through the straitjacket, but it barely felt as though it was happening to her anymore. The sound of a ticking clock began to register, and the familiar sound of the White Rabbit's nervous laughter echoed over the hazy visual of the mask as it swam before her as though in a heat haze, and Alice closed her eyes, knowing it would all be over soon. Wonderland was calling.

A few moments later, the hand on her chest disappeared, and the sound of a scream was cut off by a hard, wet thud. Alice struggled up from the comforting fall into Wonderland and forced her eyes open, sitting up and pressing her hand against her temple when it ached with the effort. 

The man who had assaulted her was splayed against the wall by the door, his head a gory mess of brain and blood and bone. It was splattered across the wall, staining some of the masks, and the iron smell of blood was heavy in the air. Alice blinked. 

She walked carefully around the body, feeling a little thrill of justice at the sight, and realised as she got to the doorway that Michael Myers was no longer at his desk. 

He was holding the other man against the corridor wall by the neck, so easily that it looked effortless. The man was crying, and trying fruitlessly to scream, and Alice noted with distaste that his fly was still undone, his cock hanging out. He made eye contact with her and tried to say something, tried to plead for help, but Alice would not have tried to stop Myers even if she had wanted to, which she certainly didn't. He was huge, and implacable, in a way that she knew better than to challenge. And, apparently, he was going to kill her would-be rapists without second thought. 

Alice leaned against the doorframe and watched, forcing herself to look, as Myers' thumbs pushed into the man's eye sockets until the eyeballs popped, blood and sclera streaming down his cheeks as he cried out. Myers crushed his head like a grape between his palms, leaving the man in the same state as the one slumped in Myers' room.He turned to face her, catching her watching, and she realised suddenly that she was completely vulnerable here. He may have killed the men who hurt her, but that was probably for the crime of defacing his masks; Alice had no guarantee that he wouldn't crush her skull, too. 

Michael took a step towards her, his sheer size enough to intimidate even without the gore staining his hands. Alice didn't take a step back. He looked almost lost, now that the men were dead. He looked away from her, down the corridor, and then down at her again. Alice looked back, feeling her fear melt away. 

"Thank you," she said, feeling a little silly for it. Michael looked at the straitjacket. "You saved me." 

One huge hand reached out, still dripping red, and tugged on one of the straps of the straitjacket. Alice tilted her head, and watched his tilt curiously in return. 

"It's because they think I'm going to kill them," she said. "It locks at the back, see? I can't take it off." She turned to show him the straps keeping her prisoner, shivering a little at turning her back to someone who could kill her as easy as breathing. 

There was a sharp tug, and the sound of tearing fabric, and Alice felt one of her arms come loose. She froze, shocked, and the noise came again, her other arm released from its hold. She could feel two hands now, tugging at the material, and it gave way easily. The straitjacket fell to the floor, and Alice took a moment to just stare at her hands, which trembled with the unusual sensation of freedom. Alice turned to face him again, feeling tears well up in her eyes. One bloody hand reached up and touched the outer corner of her right eye, bizarrely gentle, and she looked up at him without fear as some of the tears began to spill over. 

"What will you do now?" she asked. Michael tilted his head again, hair shifting against the paper mache ofhis mask, and walked back into his cell. Alice followed, stepping daintily over the pool of blood spreading from the corpse against the wall. 

There was a mask taped to the wall by the dead man painted in red, blue and yellow, like a clown. Some of the colours had faded a little, the edges frayed with age. Alice picked it up with careful fingers. 

A thud made her look up, and she saw Michael staring at her, fists clenched. Alice held her hands up. 

"Sorry. I like it, though." She reached up and put the mask on over her face, carefully settling the elastic against her hair. It was made for a face slightly bigger than hers, but certainly not as big as Myers'; she wondered how old this one was. He had been here since he was 7, 9? Alice remembered overhearing the nurses talk about it, but couldn't quite recall the exact number. 

It felt safer, behind a mask, and Alice thought she understood why he wore them.

Michael walked over, his steps muffled by the slippers he wore, and held out a square of paper. Alice didn't try to take it, just leaned closer, and realised that it was in fact a photograph. A young, blonde boy, holding a baby. She looked up at Michael, whose head was tilted again. 

"The boy is you?" she guessed, and although she got no response, she thought that she had got it right. And the baby... "Your sister?" she asked, thinking that perhaps this was why he had spared her. The baby's eyes weren't clear - the photo was very old, and in black and white - but they looked pale like her own. Perhaps she reminded him of his sister. "What's her name?" 

Michael turned the photo over, and she saw that "BOO" was scribbled on the back in marker.

"Boo," she murmured, and Michael tucked the photo into the pocket of his soft cardigan for safekeeping. "You're going to find her?" 

Michael just stared at her, silent and unemotive. Alice stared back. 

"Can I come with you?" she asked, feeling a foolish rush of hope at the idea of leaving this place. Michael certainly wasn't safe, but he wasn't the asylum, and this place was just as oppressive as the last one. The urge to escape felt as though it was scuttling directly along her nerves. "I can help. I can tell her who you are." Alice paused. "I don't have anything else," she admitted. "I don't have anywhere to go except here." 

There was silence, as she was coming to expect, before he turned and left the cell. He hadn't killed her - and Alice knew that if he wanted her gone, that was how he would ensure it - so she followed, picking up a baton from one of the corpses. It was stained with blood; she wiped it off on a clean portion of the guard's uniform until she could grasp the handle without her hands slipping. 

Michael hadn't picked up a weapon, Alice noticed. He didn't need one. Her dress was torn where they had assaulted her, leaving a rip up the side of her right thigh, but it was still serviceable, if bloody where the torn skirt had dragged along the floor. If Alice concentrated, she could imagine that it was the dress she wore in Wonderland, blue and white and only lightly bloodied. It almost looked that way, when she glanced down herself out of the corner of her eye. 

She lingered a little behind him, checking doors as he stalked down the corridors. The facility was quiet at this time at night, even most of the other prisoners asleep, and the slap of her bare feet against the tiles was loud. The lights buzzed incessantly. 

Most of the doors were locked, but she managed to find her way into a staff bathroom. When Alice looked in the mirror her eyes were huge and ringed with shadow, and her cheeks looked hollow. Her hair was a greasy, miserable mess. 

"Well, I suppose it doesn't matter," she told her reflection. "It's not important that I look beautiful." 

Still, she washed her face, drying it off on the hem of her dress, and scrubbed the blood from her bare feet where she hadn't quite avoided the puddle in Myers' room. It helped her feel a little more human.

She needn't have bothered, she realised, when she caught up to Michael and the trail of mutilated bodies he was leaving behind. The blood had spread far enough across the floor that there was no avoiding it, even if she jumped; Alice sighed and tiptoed through, closing eyes as she passed bodies that still had them. One of the nurses had a pair of sensible shoes on, with the slightest heel. Alice unlaced them, trying not to feel guilty, and took her socks too. 

The shoes were white, but mostly red now, but she felt better for wearing them. Alice followed the trail of bodies, still clutching the baton. 

She found him in a little room, holding a man by the collar. He was begging for his life. 

"Mikey, please, I was good to you," the man sputtered, through bloody lips, and Alice recognised his voice. She had heard him talking to Michael as he mopped the hallway, muffled through the walls. He had seemed kind, as much as anyone could be to someone in their situation. Michael dropped him on the floor and she thought for a moment that it was mercy, but he reached up and ripped the heavy television from the wall without hesitation, turning back to the man crying on the floor. 

"Mikey, please," the man said, soaked down to his shoulders. Alice looked around and saw the sink against the far wall, and realised that he had been half-drowned. 

"Michael?" she said, but he didn't pause, just kept walking towards his victim. Alice darted in front of him, reaching out with trembling hands to rest them against his elbows. "Michael, it's not his fault. He didn't keep you here." The Caterpillar's voice echoed through her head, and she tilted it thoughtfully. "Abuse is a crime the strong visit on the weak," she said, feeling the Caterpillar's strange intonation in her own voice. "There is hope, but there must be justice, and this is not justice. Do you see, Michael? The train has destroyed you, but destroying him will not bring the pieces back together. We must find your Dollmaker and destroy  him , instead."

Michael hesitated, still holding the television easily above his head.  Oh, Alice , the Cat said in her mind.  Killing the Dollmaker didn't bring the pieces back together. What an interesting lie to tell . 

"Shut up, Cat," Alice snapped. "If I want your opinion I will ask for it." 

For some reason, that seemed to be what did it. Michael lowered the television to the floor, staring intently at Alice through the holes in the pumpkin mask. Alice pushed up the clown mask to press her palm against the bridge of her nose, wincing at the sharp pain of a headache coming on. A sticky hand pushed hers out of the way, covering her eyes. Alice leaned into it, sighing. The darkness helped, even if there was blood like war paint covering her nose and temples now.

The man on the floor let out a broken sob, and the hand on her face tensed, then drew away. Alice turned to him and knelt down, looking him in the eyes. "I'm terribly sorry for this, but we can't risk not getting away, you see," she explained, and then hit him with the baton as hard as she could, hearing the crack of rubber against bone and just about catching him before he would have crashed to the floor. He was still breathing when she checked. Alice turned to Michael, who was watching her impassively, head tilted. She slid her mask back down, then stood and slipped a hand into his. "Let's go find Boo," she said gently, and was surprised when he allowed her to lead the way. 

-

The rest of the escape wasn't bloodless, in the least - Michael still killed most of the people they came across, though there weren't many this late at night. One she managed to club while he was distracted watching Michael, and they both watched him crumple to the floor like a puppet cut from its strings. The spindly fingers of the Dollmaker trailed down the nape of her neck, and Alice felt the Ruin drip down her cheeks. She shook her head. 

"I ended you, Bumby!" she declared, scowling. "You will never hurt another child, and you certainly can't hurt me anymore!" 

You may have saved yourself, but the Alice that is left bears scars both visible and not , the Cat said. 

"And I will live with them forever," Alice acknowledged wearily, itching to hold the Vorpal blade. "They feel less like scars and more like gaping wounds. The Ruin has blackened everything it touched." 

Remember, you must not let fear paralyse you , the Cat chastised.  What an ignoble end it would be to die now. Wonderland is only just starting to heal . 

"If I do, then all is lost," Alice murmured. "Yes, yes. One must continue onwards, or be stuck like a rusted gear, grinding endlessly against itself." 

Alice looked up and saw Michael watching her. He was busy breaking down a door with a fire extinguisher, but his eyes were fixed on her. She could feel the curiosity in them without needing to see it. Another hit of the extinguisher and the door buckled; Michael pulled the crumpled metal from its frame and tossed it carelessly aside before stepping through. Alice, unmoored, followed. 

A few minutes later they were outside, truly outside, the air cold and lively as Alice breathed it in. She toed the shoes off and tugged off the socks, flexing her bare feet in the damp grass. She could feel Michael watching her again. Always watching. 

“I haven’t been outside for years,” she said, sitting in the grass and clutching at tufts of it, her toes still flexing. “They usually sedate me when I’m being transferred. I just go to sleep in one room and wake up in another. Has it been the same for you?” 

Michael reached into his pocket and pulled out the photo again, holding it up so that Alice could see the children. She sighed. 

“Yes, alright,” she said. “Let’s go find Boo.” 


End file.
